


It Was Not Your Fault, But Mine

by Anihan (Nakagami)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a bit of an emotional breakdown over what might happen to Sherlock and/or what Sherlock might do to the world. Lestrade reminds him of why he does it. </p><p>Incomplete hurt/comfort fic snippet between Lestrade and John. Not in reference to 2x03.</p><p>If viewed with slash goggles, Lestrade/John or Johnlock could be achieved. Or maybe Lestrade/Sherlock. I consider this gen. (Or a party. My slash goggles are permanently affixed, so most likely a party.)</p><p>Warning: Brief violent death is theorized by a character, but not described. Or factual in the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Not Your Fault, But Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Little Lion Man (song)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/10089) by Mumford And Sons. 



> Written at midnight because of this Tumblr post: http://favoritelittlelyrics.tumblr.com/post/27927556169/mumford-sons-little-lion-man
> 
> Will reread and edit tomorrow. For now, I sleep. My next midterm begins in seven hours. Goodnight.

Sally Donovan had said,  "He'll always let you down." Pity was her only expression that night, just as intolerance was her only warning. Don't trust him. Don't put your hopes in him. Reject the whole man because his brilliance is a two-edged sword.

John had discounted that advice back then, on the night they had met, but the fire within him had dimmed in the interim. His heart had been burned by the loyalty he had so brashly clung to.

He'll always let you down. 

No, he thought suddenly. And then aloud, "No." Not always. Only when it mattered. 

"Tea?" John offered.

The word soaked into the walls of 221B. Uncomfortable, Lestrade looked away from the visibly distraught man's face. "John, you don't have to..." 

"I want a cup," John enunciated clearly, biting off each word. 

Hesitantly, Lestrade nodded his assent. 

John took this as permission to flee the room. The other man was a scant step behind him. Lestrade's presence was an acid-bright declamation. "Can't let me in my own kitchen alone anymore, can you?" he said softly, accusatory and resigned at once. 

There was no polite answer for that. Lestrade cleared his throat. "John, turn around." The soldier's spine stiffened, and Lestrade lowered his voice. "Please."

John did. Until he looked up, tears flicking off the end of his nose with the motion, John hadn't realized that he had been crying.

Lestrade, obviously, had. The motions were ill-practiced and somehow a threat between them, but John allowed Lestrade to pull him into his arms.

The embrace wasn't gentle. For that, at least, both of them were glad. John hugged back without hesitation, without reservation. Why hold back when the true extent of John's indomitable soul was no secret? Lestrade knew, didn't he?  _When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._ They had walked it together, and even now,  _even now,_  John felt... the most whole when thinking of him. The thought of their team together.

The truth was, John Watson's will was not indomitable. It was fluid and striving for survival, mutable so that it would never diminish; as a science, it was constantly being tested and reevaluated, theories proven and disproved, and the strength of John Watson only ever needed one thing to be fed indefinitely.

Lestrade's breath stirred John's hair. There were ten centimetres between their heights-- four inches of space between their eye levels, Lestrade's lips turned away at John's temple. "C'mon, mate," he breathed just above John's ear. "At least he's alive." 

And just like that, John was laughing. High pitched, hysteric-- he was dizzy, gasping. Had he been sobbing? The shirt under his chin was a mess when he pulled back a few centimetres to breathe. The distance didn't help.

"That's a good thing, is it? That way he can do this all over again in a few months. Why not? There's nothing  _interesting_  going on, so why bother keeping your limbs attached to your bloody  _transport--"_

"John, he was fine!" 

 _"He jumped into a wood chipper!"_  John roared, then flinched at his own vehemence, though he didn't back down. His eyes shut of their own accord and refused to open. "It doesn't matter if he wasn't physically injured-- nothing about jumping into a wood chipper was or is 'fine'!"

Panic thrummed in his veins as clearly as it had then. It was irrational. Sherlock would scoff. John ground his teeth.

"John. John!" Lestrade pushed him away (because pulling him close again was no longer an option) and shook his shoulders until his eyes opened. "Think about who you are talking about. Think! You  _know_  his past. But what he does now, isn't it worth it?" 

John flinched. "Am I supposed to--" 

"No." Lestrade let go of him and retreated a couple steps, giving him space. "Not at all. You're supposed to make your own decision, just like I did." 

John searched his eyes for crumbling resolve but found only resigned loyalty. There wasn't even doubt at this point. He was a cop: How long had it taken the man to equate supporting Sherlock with justice? Yes, Sherlock was a radical truth-seeker, but at least he sought it. He found it. He demanded it.

Lestrade smiled self-depracatingly, the twist of his features both wry and self-aware. "Truth is, I've seen this all before from the inside. I can't convince you of anything, John." 

Even as a doctor, John could not tell you how strong an emotion had to be for Lestrade to tremble that hard. As a soldier, John had only seen it in the dying; the cases wherein death was slow and mortality encompassed almost every thought. 

Morbid as it was, something in that situation struck accord.

His spirit wavered. 

Sally had thought that no good could come from what, eventually, may become evil. But Lestrade had given John a quintessential piece of knowledge that Sally had disbelieved. _One day, if we're very, very lucky..._

John shuddered and pulled himself back from the brink.

Both hands were trembling worse than the intermittent tremor ever had. He finished making their tea and they stood in the kitchen together for a few more minutes, drinking peaceably to the sound of Mrs. Hudson fussing with clutter in the other room. 

"I'm good," John said after the first cup had emptied (Lestrade's, surprisingly, and John offered him biscuits to fill the time). He looked down into his mug and huffed a small laugh. "I can wait." 

"Good," Lestrade answered. He took a biscuit but didn't take a bite. "So can I."

As long as 'one day' hadn't yet come, they still had hope. 


End file.
